“Listen, I Can Explain Transformers 2…”

I had to lie low, and take it easy when Sheen took the crazy train for a spin around the this great nation of ours to the thunderous applause of NO ONE. He said the craziest, most coked-out shit I’ve ever heard outside of a private estate, elite country club, or bar they don’t let the unimportant people into, but here’s the thing, Charlie, the insanity must be a symptom of greatness, not the cause.

I would love it if I could cash the checks I do just by nailing high-end trim, crashing expensive cars into boats, and exploding helicopters over pet stores, but I can’t, because this is America and you can be the big swinging dick on the cover of Us, OK, and Shit Bop or whatever dumb fucking names they call magazines, but if you want “Fuck You” Money, you have to perform.

And baby, I perform. All day. All night. Can’t stop. Won’t stop. That’s why we’re doing a third movie with giant robots in it, Transformers: Dark of the Moon.

I’ve heard a lot of rumblings that people are going to skip this one, because the second one was awful. Do not count me out. Do not think that I will fade into that good night.

Do not sleep on Michael Bay. I’m so much more powerful in dreams.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen was awful. I know in the press I blamed it on the Writer’s Strike (PS – Fuck those guys, right?), but really we were down in South America, just wasted on whatever they serve down there cut with fermented cactus gravy. We were out of our fucking minds. We decided to write a script as fast as we could until we sobered up and see if we could turn it into the studios.

I swear to God, we didn’t think they’d make it. Seriously, we just wanted to fuck with Spielberg, and LaBeef, and the higher ups at Dreamworks. I can’t remember why. We just thought it’d be funny. And it was.

They were on us to make it bigger and better and set it all over the world so international audiences would like it more. Those were my only notes: bigger (which, come on, it’s me, fuckin’ duh), and make it more appealing to the rest of the world.

The jibberish-clucking, deodorant-refusing, Sigur Ros-jacking cretins that make up the parts of the world not flying the Stars and Stripes over their capitols will like what I tell them to like. They will take whatever I feel like spewing at them and be thankful they’re getting something with some bass and some diesel and it isn’t about a bunch of fems in powdered wigs trying on their wives’ shoes and practicing speaking into a microphone.

'Merica.

I’m a prophet of this great nation, and I will cream the message of our unstoppable badassness in whatever way I see fit. They will look at our glittering cities with buildings reaching into the sky, roads filled with cars, helicopters flying into sunsets, and abundant sexy women, and they will know that the bar has been raised so high that they will never reach it.

So we, as a joke, had it open in China where the Chinese actually asked the US for help. Let me explain something to you about China. China does not give a fuck.

We tried everything to shoot there and they told us we could fuck ourselves to our tenth ancestor, an that last guy could fuck all the animals on our hillbilly farm.

I fucking respect that.

I see this in my head every time I do something well.

The idea that they would ask a US-fronted team of commandos riding in robots to take care of problems in their own country was considered an insult by their government. It was so offensive to them, they sent assassins for me and the screenwriters. I had to beat a Chinese guy who dropped in through my skylight to death with some supermodel’s fucking Pomeranian. Those dogs don’t have a lot of heft to them. I finally killed the guy by stabbing him through both eyes with the dog’s leg bones.

I have never been as hard as I was that night. Thank you for that god boner, China. Of course Ms. Titties McAss was freaking out over her dog, so I had to fuck her friends.

I have this tattooed across my back. Just like all good Chinese.

The point is; China is too crazy to ever listen to anyone or anything. I put the movie in that batshit crazy place expressly to get the studio to back off the script.

They loved it. “Shoot the China stuff in Pittsburgh! No one will know,” they said.

Okay, time to get nasty.

I said the ending we would end up destroying the pyramids in Egypt, because the idea of an American force literally rubbing advanced technology in the face of a Middle Eastern nation as we destroyed their cultural landmarks and identity to fucking save them was too insane. No way they’d let this happen. How would this appeal to anywhere outside of America? There was no way they’d let us do it.

This is what it's like over there, still, right?

They told me to ballpark my budget.

I said, and I cannot stress this enough, as a joke, 200 million.

They gave it to me.

So then, off the top of my head, right there, I pitched the Minstrel bots. I even did really, super racist impressions and “walks” to get my point across.

THEY GAVE IT TO ME.

Mo' money, no problems. See what I did there?

Now I’m thinking to myself, “Michael, you fucking stallion, they haven’t read your hilarious joke script. No one at Dreamworks even looked past the fucking title. Your rugged good looks have gotten you into another jam, because they see your lantern jaw and lustrous head of hair, like some kind of King Lion, and instinctively feel safe in your presence and have given you their complete trust and faith.”

I cashed the check. Obviously. But that’s upfront money. I get that anyway. Surely at some point, we’d have to halt production to fix the script, right? Someone in charge, or at least their assistants would read it at some point, right?

Wrong.

I thought for certain someone, maybe, one of the actors would say something about the script jumping around at random, or how the threat of the whole movie was largely absent during the entire thing, but newsflash: all actors are retarded. Every goddamn one of them. They probably didn’t even make one of their assistants or entourage read it to them before they showed up on set. It’s my fault, really, for putting my faith in them. Actors can barely feed themselves or work a jacket, let alone read more than two pages at a time.

That's weird. Yes, I know they're robots. Still weird.

But surely, SURELY, a producer, or a coordinator, someone along the chain of command would say something about how Optimus Prime goes into battle wearing the tattered remains of a robot who had never met him, but still killed himself so Prime could wear his jetpack corpse into battle against the tribal robot at the flying pyramid.

This is such a dumb design.

NOTHING.

Do you know why?

Everyone is fucking afraid of me. Or in awe. It could go either way.

I get results. I put asses in seats. I’m so goddamn good at my fucking job, that no one, even if their soul is screaming at them, “say something! Stop this! It makes no sense! China! Egypt! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh,” they will never question me.

And they’re right not to! Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen made 800 million dollars in theaters alone. 800 million dollars. Let me write that out for you. 800,000,000 worldwide!

We stomped the nuts off of everyone that summer! I wrote that movie on a drunken dare. I was face-down in mocha muff on on beach somewhere in South America when the basic framework of the story was pitched to me! We wrote it in 36 hours!

All of you assholes talking shit about how awful this was, you’re right. We wrote it drunk over a weekend, as a fucking dare. Orci and Kurtzman were on that shit. Do you really think JJ Abrams two butt boys were going to do something like that on purpose? That they’d create something like Transformers 2 to show to people?

Now that I think about it, they actually may have tried to stop it, but I ditched them in the jungle when we disagreed over something in Act 2. They didn’t want Megan Fox to have her leg humped by the RC car. I vetoed their veto when I shoved them out of a helicopter over a waterfall.

What a rich, memorable character.

Here’s my point: I’m actually trying now. I’m off the cactus. Do you have any idea what I’m going to do to you in July? You have no clue. I’m going to make all your senses and holes feel like you just got love battered by a one-man gangbang.